Book Excerpt

The following is from a book I am currently working on. Just wanted to share.  

Chapter 5 - Childhood Ambitions and I Still Don’t Know What I Want To Be When I Grow Up

I was nominated my senior year of high school as being the one ‘most likely to still be in college trying to decide what to major in’ for our senior year future predictions. 

When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a movie star actress more than anything in the world. I dreamt of it often, walking the red carpet with my Oscar in hand. And I didn’t want to be a stage-actress playing lead role in the same part every night for three months straight. But I didn’t want to just be a movie star for the glitz and the glamour. The appeal of fame and fortune was not as strong as my need for privacy and my not wanting to be chased by photographers everywhere. The main reason, the overwhelming reason I wanted to be a movie actress were the roles. In one movie you got to be a fighter pilot, in the next movie you might be a princess; in another you might be a firefighter hero and then turn around and be a stay-at-home mom who drinks too much. But it was always changing. You could be whoever you wanted to be, in different careers, different geographies, far away planets that don’t even exist - that’s what I was always interested in. And it wasn’t that I was unhappy with my life or who I was, or maybe I was and didn’t know it, but more like monotony has always bored me. Routines are hard to follow, as was sitting still behind a desk for ten years of my life, taking orders from people who quite frankly, nine times out of ten, didn’t know their ass from their elbows. I have found a job that I love though. I do really enjoy real estate, my current profession, and have interesting stories I could probably tell from my journey with it thus far. Wait, what, did you think I was a writer? Hahahaha, well no, I’m not. I don’t go around introducing myself as “Hi, I’m Jennifer. I’m a writer.” Instead, I say, “Hi, I’m Jennifer. I’m a real estate agent.” “Can I show you a house?” “I have some property you might be interested in.” I write because I love it. I love to write. But I am not a writer by trade or profession. It’s my hobby. It’s my own entertainment, and sometimes my own therapy. I was born to write. I’m not sure if I have mentioned this before or not, but I started my first novel at the age of 10 or 11. True Story. I never finished it. As has probably been one of my biggest weaknesses/faults in life was not finishing. Not the book, I’m sure it was not that great of a book, at ten years old, but in not finishing many things I once started. I’m not gonna say I didn’t come by it honestly, either, but that’s no excuse. It’s something I have had to openly admit to myself that I have many times in life taken the easy way out like just quitting something I had committed myself to without real cause, other than I just didn’t want to, mostly. I’m working to improve that side of myself. They say acknowledgement is the first step in recovery. I intend to finish this book, sooner, rather than later. And I’m not being doom and gloom, but I feel a renewed sense of urgency in getting these thoughts and words down on paper. 

….Stop and smell the roses. I have to remind myself of that sometimes. To look around, acknowledge the world around me, and give thanks for it. I am currently doing that right now. Sitting on my front porch, trying to type without looking at the computer screen thinking of my high school typing teacher, Ms. H, while a bee buzzes above my face, and the wind rustles the small, delicate yellow flowers in my front yard, with too tall grass that needs mowing. My Father in Law is supposed to be on top of that these days. He’s retired now. I like to think it helps keep him busy. He’s a piddler, if ever there was one. Folks from the South know exactly what a piddler is and if you don’t know, you ain’t from around here. 

I recently divorced myself from an on-going group text message with around 6-9 of my gal pal besties. I hated to do it, but it was time. It had gotten too big, too frequent, too time-consuming, and too distracting. I was getting anywhere from 100-200 text messages in a single day from one single text thread. And the majority of the conversations were not what I would call urgent need to know information. It was more like gossip, silly antics, funny this-just-happened-to-me conversations, and random whatever from someone with nothing really to do a the moment. It was taking a lot of time out of my day from other things in my life, and just since my “break-up”; which was coincidentally, yesterday, I have already noticed a difference in my day and have gotten far more done today than I have any other day this week. And the quiet… Now, granted, my phone rings and dings a lot. Pretty much all day/night at least in random spurts throughout the day. After all, I am a real estate agent. My phone is how I make a lot of my living. But honestly, with the group text, it had gotten to where all my phone did all day long was ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding. Ding. It was constant; all day. About nothing in particular, becoming just an annoying noise that kept driving my attention back to it. Life, is like that sometimes too, a buzzing, dinging noise in the background. Slow down.  Turn your phone off. Stop spending your time living in a group text or living vicariously through television or social media, and actually get out and start living your life. It’s slipping away right now, perhaps slowly or more quickly than you may realize. Enjoy. Relax. Read a book. Read my book. Write a book. 

Maybe one day I will introduce myself as a writer. 

Prologue

October 21, 2015 

(The day Marty McFly goes Back To The Future {Part II})

This started out as a story of my journey with cancer. But after careful consideration, I have decided my story is much more than that. Yes, I have cancer; Stage IV Colorectal Cancer. I’ve been fighting it for well past two years now, and still undergoing treatment. However, I am currently 39 years old, so in comparison, two and a half years isn’t really that long. Plus, I refuse to be defined and labeled as a disease statistic. If, I am to be remembered in relation to cancer, I hope to be “that girl who made cancer her bitch and whipped it like a man behind the toolshed”. No, my journey has been much more than this disease. I would even say it's been absolutely wonderful. It has been full of adventure, mischief, bad behavior, good deeds, acts of kindness, despair, tragedy, pain, hope, dreams, love and ideas; both big and small. As far as a life can go, mine’s been a pretty damn good one I think, and I like to believe it’s far from over. Then again, I may get hit by an asteroid later tonight, so I figure I should at least get the prologue done for the book I’ve been wanting to write since I was about ten years old. It’s changed quite dramatically in the last 29 or so years, and it may change yet again before I’m through writing it. But for now, this is the start. 

This is what I have always wanted to do. It’s too bad that I had to come close to dying before finally doing it. This is my story, as best as I can recall. 

Chapter 1:

A Perfect Day

Life is better in the South. I’ve read a few Southern writers who have said something along the lines that Southerners have better stories. Mostly, in part, because Yankees are too cold to stand around and tell ‘em. Well, I think it’s true. But that’s another story.

I’ve said it before, and I will say it again, coming out from under a chemo fog, is a whole new experience. You don’t really feel great, until you have felt absolutely terrible. That’s what chemo is like, for anyone who would like to know. You feel the very life of you slipping away, and when it’s over, you think, “Holy shit, I’m glad that’s over.” But you feel somewhat renewed. Or I do anyway. I can’t speak for anyone else living this.

Every time I go into a treatment, I am filled with dread. I have anxiety the night before and barely sleep. I know what’s coming. And every single time, I think, I can’t make it through one more. But then, somehow, I do. And when it’s over, I look back and think, “I made it.”
And I’m grateful. I’m grateful for the chance to say I made it. So many don’t get that opportunity. And sometimes, when I’m laying there, feeling sorry for myself, I think of the all the people who weren’t given the chance; those that were given a death sentence and some morphine to ease the pain. And so it seems rather selfish to throw a second chance into the wind. It’s wrong not to fight.

Cancer is not the worst thing that can happen to a person. There are far worse fates. It’s just the name we give to a disease we don’t understand. It’s not fair, but nobody said life was.

I recall my Mom, Dad and I having casual conversations around the dinner table about how we would choose to die... not necessarily your typical dinner conversation, yet nonetheless, we did so more more than once. Maybe we’re just morbid. I always said I would rather have a disease like cancer so that I would know the end was near and make necessary preparations. My mother always opted for a car crash, or something immediate. My dad usually leaned toward my way of thinking, but perhaps slightly more hesitant.

Given everything that’s happened, I still stand by my original decision. At least I have a chance.

It’s always darkest before the dawn.

'Cation

I’m officially on vacation, at Gulf Shores in Alabama, thanks to a friend of mine who is letting us use his condo for the week.

Why am I writing this? Because life is good today. You never really realize how stressed and tense you are, until you get somewhere where stress and tense do not exist. And then all of a sudden, you don’t know how to act. Wait...what is this? No alarm in the morning? A beer for lunch? Don’t mind if I do....

We’ve only been here one day and so far we have seen six dolphins, although really it was the same three dolphins; twice. Once, earlier today, on their trip out to sea, and this evening, with the same three dolphins on their return voyage. Or, at least, so we’re guessing. And Seth caught two hermit crabs and got nibbled on by a school of fish. We went to The Hangout after we got in last evening and watched people dancing on tables and ate some of the best shrimp I’ve had in a really long time.

I love the ocean. I love how it makes you feel so small and tiny. No matter what is going on in your life, just sitting outside on the beach at night, with the sound of waves crashing in, neighboring vacationers dancing, drinking, or solving world peace; it’s like the “real world” no longer exists. All of the problems you have, all of the drama you have to deal with, or just the daily grind, just melts away. Slowly at first, as your body and mind adjust to the calm. And then, before you know it, you’re running down the beach with seashell braids in your hair, pulling a Bo Derek.

There’s an old saying, something about how if you find a job you love, you’ll never work a day in your life. And then there’s the one about creating a life that you don’t have to take vacation from. Well, that sounds pretty fabulous in theory, but most of us do not have that luxury. We have to take it when we can get it, and enjoy every single second of it, knowing that it’s only for a limited time, and next week, it’s back to reality.

Time for another Corona...

These Feet are Made for Walking

In July of 2003, I severed my Achilles tendon. All the way. Completely in half. 

I was married only a couple months before this. My newlywed husband and I had been at a friend’s house, soaking in the hot tub, drinking a few beers. On the way home we got into an argument. It was over a hypothetical poker game, and somehow, between the beers and the hot tub and the heat of the summer, it escalated into a full blown yelling match. 

We pulled into our apartment building, in downtown Birmingham. We had a large deck facing the driveway and parking area. We got out of the car, still screaming at each other. My husband was much larger than me; about six feet tall and weighing in at around 200 pounds or so. I am 5’4” and 120 pounds soaking wet. He made it out of the car first. As I came up the back steps leading to our back deck, he stood in front of the door way. He told me that I was not coming into HIS house. 

The rage overtook me. How dare he try and block my path. I lived here. I paid half the bills. I owned half the furniture. I would be damned if some man was going to tell me I wasn’t welcome in my own home. My first instinct was to kick him. Hard. Maybe in the groin. But he was much larger than me, and I realized the alcohol was clouding his judgment, and he was already angry. What if he kicked me back? 

The apartments and houses in this part of Birmingham are typically much older homes. Full of charm, but with old home problems. The door on the back deck was a glass paneled door, and if often stuck; meaning you had to push with authority at times to get it open. 

It was hot. I was wearing brown leather Eddie Bauer sandals. I reared back, and kicked at the wooden frame portion of the door, right past where my husband was standing, second panel up, probably close to 18 or 24 inches from the ground. I missed. I hit the glass. 

The door burst open. I immediately crashed inward and landed inside the house, just past the dining room table. The lights were off in the house. That’s when I felt it. It hit my stomach. A strange, sort of nauseating feeling, like I was about to pass out. I immediately knew something very bad had happened. 

“Bart,” I said. “Something’s wrong.” He had walked past me in a huff making his way toward the kitchen. “Whatever,” was his response. He turned the kitchen light on. Just then I saw every bit of color leave his face. 

It’s a strange moment when it happens. Everything that was just a second ago, so very important, all of a sudden, didn’t matter anymore. He grabbed one of his t-shirts that happened to be lying close by and wrapped it around my ankle. Blood was pouring everywhere. “Can you walk?” he asked. “I think so,” I said as calmly as I could. He said he was going to get the car and I would meet him downstairs. The walk down my steps was surreal. 

Once, years before, I was driving a car and the front axle went out. I could turn the wheel as hard right as I wanted, and the car only drifted in whatever direction it felt like. It was the same sensation. My foot floated and twisted loosely in my shoe. I was turning the steering wheel, but the tires weren’t moving. I assumed it was from the blood pooling in my shoe. My foot just can’t get any traction. 

We lived two blocks from St. Vincent’s hospital. We came in damn near sideways. Bart jumped out of the car in front of the emergency room doors. He told me to sit tight; that he was going to get help. As I sat there, I could feel the life drain from me. I knew if I waited any longer (it felt like eternity) I would surely bleed to death. I opened the car door. I hobbled slowly from the passenger seat. I felt dizzy. Small black specks were starting to float in front of my eyes. The nauseating feeling in my stomach grew more severe. Had to make it. I started trying to walk. I limped, half-dragging my useless foot and faced the sliding glass doors in front of me. They didn’t move. My dizzy head couldn’t stand there any longer and try to figure it out. I spotted more doors off the right. I dragged-limped over to them. They opened. There was a long hallway. The dark spots got bigger. I laid down - right in the middle of the hallway. At this point I realized it was either lay down or fall down. I chose to lay. A nurse spotted me. “Honey, are you alright?” she asked as she leaned over me. All I could do was raise my head, point at my foot, and say “I cut myself. My ankle.” 

I could see, out of the corner of my eye, my poor husband, followed by a medical team and a gurney, making their way to our car. I can only imagine their confusion, as they approached an empty vehicle, passenger door open and a trail of blood leading to yet another door. They hoisted me onto the gurney and started to wheel me into the emergency room. “BP 66 over 22!” I heard the nurse to my left yell to her cohorts. I shot straight upright on the bed. “Is that my blood pressure?” I asked, completely wild eyed. “Yes!” She practically yelled her response at me. “Well, that’s not good,” I informed her, just in case she was unsure. “I know,” she responded, “now lay back down.” 

And that’s it. That’s how I completely severed my Achilles tendon. At the time, I had no idea. I just thought I had cut myself badly, possibly severing an artery or something. It was later pointed out, while laying on a hospital bed, (by my husband, to the doctor on staff), that hey, that Vienna sausage looking thing coming out of my leg, looks like it might be a tendon. It was. I’ve not eaten a Vienna sausage since then, by the way. They stitched me up, and I met with a surgeon the next day. I had a tendon repair surgery, and spent about six weeks in a cast, followed by a couple more months in a walking boot, followed by a few more months of incredibly painful physical therapy, to learn how to use my foot again. I now have permanent surgical staples in my ankle holding my tendon together; reminding me on a daily basis that if you’re going to lose your temper and put your foot through a glass door, you should probably be wearing boots. 

Thoughts Worth Pondering

I have a love hate relationship with the television. Don’t get me wrong. There are few things better than a lazy, rainy Sunday spent on the couch wrapped in a blanket watching whatever Lifetime movies are on or any one of the Alien movies, or Shawshank Redemption. God. I love that movie. Ol’ Andy Dufrane. Get busy living or get busy dying…. one of my all time favorite movies. But sometimes, more often than not, it’s just an annoying noise in the background. Bored Housewives, Keeping Up with the Krazies; who watches this shit? Really? Does anyone? Most of the time all I hear is blah, blah, blah or more like muah muah muah (think Charlie Brown and his teacher). Background noise. 

The news is horrible. If you watch the “Evening News”, you get 28 minutes of horror, followed by a thirty second clip of the oldest woman alive skydiving or a Marine that saved a dog; and then you’re supposed to get all giddy about that shit. Nevermind that you were just subjected to the worst humanity has to offer: somebody shot somebody, somebody blew up somebody, somebody scammed somebody, but hey, here’s a puppy!!! 

And cable news? Forget it. 24 hour revolving door of death, murder, kill. But why don’t we all just get along? Hmmmmm…..

I like good movies. I like movies that make you think. One of my all time favorites in this particular think genre is called “Crash”. If you haven’t seen it, and you think you might possibly be a narrow minded nilly wilily; you should probably watch it. It might give you second thoughts. Then again, if you do happen to be a shallow asshole, then it probably won’t do much except confuse you.  

So my best advice to most of you, is to just turn it off. Turn. It. Off. Put down the t.v. remote, set aside the IPad, stop connecting to social media (it’s making you dumber) and go do something. Anything. Life doesn’t happen on the InterWebs. And it damn sure ain’t happening on the tel-o-vision. It happens every single day right outside your door. And if you’re lucky, it’s happening right now, inside your doors. Put your phone down, turn the tv off, and get freaky with your honey. Or go read your kids a book. Or go catch lightning bugs. And if you don’t live in the South and have lightning bugs, then move to the South. And then catch lightning bugs. 

‘Merica!!!

Happy post 4th of July celebrations. It’s Tuesday, so you should all be dragging yourselves back to work now, except you teachers, and we all know you don’t really work anyway. Ahem...

I used to get very involved in politics. Or put another way, I used to enjoy debating political policies while drinking beer and sitting around campfires. Being a democrat in a “red” state, I’ve had my fair share of heated talks, and have even been accused of being one of those “liberals”.  To be fair, if I lived in a more liberal area, I would probably be accused of being too conservative. Yes, compared to some of my peers in the rural South, I fall on the liberal side, but that’s mostly because I just happen to think people have a right to be happy, and do what they want to do, as long as what they are doing doesn’t somehow cause myself or others harm (physically, mentally, or otherwise). You want to drink beer on your front porch and jam out to Lynard Skynard? Fine. I don’t care. Just keep it turned down when I start blasting my CCR and dancing in the kitchen at two in the morning. My one neighbor is probably trying to sleep.

But then I just stopped. Not the dancing in my kitchen part; I still do that from time to time, but the engaging in fruitless political arguments (no longer debates) part. Either you discuss with like-minded individuals the best ways to solve the world’s problems, and then go back to business as usual, with nothing actually having been accomplished, or end up throwing said beer can at someone’s head because you think it might help dislodge it from their ass.

The idea of a democracy, or so how it was more or less explained to me, is that politicians are elected to represent the interests of the people. Hence, we LITERALLY call them “representatives”, as such, they should represent the interests of the population that voted them into office. But let’s take it a step further. I think there’s more to it than that. To me, at least in theory, a politician should take themselves out of the equation. No brainer, right? You are elected to serve the peoples; not yourself. But I like to think of it as akin to being the adult in a room full of small children. Let’s say you run a daycare, and the majority vote is ice cream for lunch, as it has been every day this week. Some of the children are even protesting loudly; two are screaming and wailing, one kid is refusing to breathe, and Timmy is picking his nose and closely examining the contents as a possible lunch alternative. However, as the adult, it is your job to say “No. No you can not have ice cream for lunch every day. It’s not good for you. Eat your vegetables and take a nap.”

Wake up, ‘Merica. It’s time some of you (us) remove our fingers and look around at the situation. For a great many of us, we have become polarized in our political stances. You’re either a Democrat or a Republican. Red or Blue. Liberal or Conservative. Right or Wrong. Hell or High Water. I can keep going if you’d like.

But maybe, just maybe, it’s time to shake things up. It’s time to decide what is best for this country. Maybe the time has come for a new party to emerge. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time in American history. Those crazy independents....damn, them!  Or maybe, the time has come to unite as a nation, put our petty little non-issues aside, and take measures that will benefit the majority of the people. For our own good. For our world. It’s not them or us. We are all in this shitstorm together, even though I know at times, it may feel like some piles are bigger than others. But don’t worry, everybody gets handed a handful at some point. Errbody.

Now who wants some ice cream?!?! Happy Birthday, America. I love you.

Tribute to my Boyfriend

Thanks for putting up with me. And you don’t have to thank me for putting up with you. I will gladly do so; for all that I get in return:

Someone that loves me in spite of myself. Someone that accepts my faults and flaws and still thinks I’m awesome, for whatever reason. 

Who thinks I’m beautiful, even when I’m not.

You find me charming and irresistible. You know you do. 

For making me smile and laugh, every single day. Every. Single. Day. Never do you not make me smile on the daily. That’s pretty amazing. 

For balance. I may be the female version of you, (so you say, and I still think that’s creepy) but you bring balance to my life. When I’m crazy, you’re sane; when I’m mad, you’re reason; when I’m down, you bring me back up. And when you’re being ridiculous, I will be sure to point it out. 

Thank you for being you. 

My Obituary

My Obituary

Jennifer Dees Whitten Grisham died yesterday after her first skydiving experience at the age of 93. The exact cause of her death is unknown, as it appears the dive went fine, and after landing gently, Mrs. Grisham could be seen smiling and laughing; when she suddenly fell to the ground and was pronounced dead on the scene. Authorities have ruled it as an apparent heart attack.

Mrs. Grisham was a notable author, having written a couple of personal memoirs in her lifetime, and was a successful real estate agent in the Pickwick Lake area of her hometown. Her greatest achievement though, was the Every Mile Matters foundation, a non-profit organization she and her business partner, and long time friend, co-created to benefit cancer patients. After the cure of cancer, the foundation broadened its scope to reach countless others in need. The foundation has raised millions and in 2027, it was named “Charity of the Year” by Forbes magazine.

Even at the age of 93, Jennifer could still pick up the guitar and make a horrible racket, which she often did, for her own amusement. She will be most remembered for her unique sense of humor and quick wit. After being awarded the Nobel Prize for her humanitarian efforts, she was quoted as saying, “Gotta save the world; one asshole at a time.”

She is survived by a loving husband, step-daughter, and countless friends and family. The majority of her estate was designated as a sanctuary for rescue animals.

Chasing the Dragon

I love scary movies. I always have. When I was younger, like maybe ten or twelve, I would visit my cousin and spend a week or so during the summers with him. He was four or five years older than me, and always had the coolest toys. He was one of the first persons I knew that had their own personal computer; back in the days of the floppy disk. He also had an extensive movie collection, most of them of the horror genre. My favorites were the Nightmare on Elm Street series. We would stay up late at night and watch them. Then, I would walk the long, ominous hallway to my aunt’s bedroom and crawl in to her king size bed; where I would have nightmares, and keep her up all hours of the night with my tossing and turning. She would scold my cousin in the morning, and the next night we would do it all again.

I look back on that time in my life with bittersweetness. Both my aunt and uncle passed away several years ago. They had sold their house in Scottsboro, AL and moved to my hometown a few years prior to their passing. But I can close my eyes and still hear the sound of the screen door slam shut, echoing through the garage. I can hear my aunt’s raspy laugh, and see the flickering dance of the fluorescent light in the kitchen. I learned to knee board on the lake across the street from that house, and played “war games” in the woods behind it. I remember swimming in their pool in the summer, and playing board games in my cousin’s bedroom floor, like it was just a brief moment ago, not well over twenty years or more.  

Freddy Krueger and the nightmare movies were a part of those great memories. Up, late at night, watching movies that terrified me, knowing I would probably get scared out of my wits, and loving it. One time, my cousin disappeared to the bathroom for a bit. When he returned he had two bloody bite marks on his neck, and looked at me with wild staring eyes, never saying a word. Just staring at me. I knew he was only fooling, and trying to scare me. And even as I tried to convince myself it was a prank, and knowing it was, there was still some doubt as to whether my cousin had just been bitten by a vampire or werewolf or some other ungodly creature. 

Morning would come, and the terrors of the night were forgotten; as it often happens in life. 

There have only been a small handful of movies that have actually terrified me as an adult, few and far between I would say, if any at all. Some make me jump, but few truly scare me. I still watch them. Still hoping for the one that will send chills up my spine and cause me to draw my legs up beneath me for fear of a hand reaching from under the couch to grab me, and pull me down to a hellish end. I think it’s similar to what drug users call "chasing the dragon”; which simplistically put, means to chase the ultimate high, which for many people is their first high, never to be reached again, but they always chase it, searching for that same euphoric feeling. It’s the same for me, I suppose. Always searching for that feeling, of times that are long since gone, the euphoria of innocence.

Short, Not So Sweet

Well, you want to talk about some shit? How’s this? One of my best friends for almost twenty years has just been diagnosed with ovarian cancer. And another friend of mine, my sister from another mister, has skin cancer.

Are you fucking kidding me? No, for real. What kind of horse shit is this? 

I’m sorry. But I really would like to go postal on the Big C right now ... like Bruce Lee kung fu style. 

I was at my friend’s house this weekend. As she laid on the couch, I could feel myself having anxiety, PTSD, or something like flashbacks. It was like having deja vu, except it was her in pain and misery, not me. We watched the movie “Sisters”, which by the way is like the third time I’ve seen that movie now. Still just as funny. I laughed so hard I peed a little. Then I freaked out wondering if I was having bladder issues. Because, you know, I once did; after my surgery. Most likely one of the other side effects from the radiation in my pelvic area is what they told me. I had to take medication for it. It’s better now. Thank God. But that didn’t stop me from worrying about it all weekend. 

It’s hard going through it. It’s hard watching people you love go through it. And it’s hard having been through it and knowing what your loved ones are dealing with, and still have yet to face. 

I suppose on the one hand, this is just more motivation for me to hurry up and whip this bitch for good, so that I can help take care of my friends. So that we can all grow old together and one day look back on this and laugh about the time when we all kicked cancer’s ass. 

Here’s to ALL the survivors out there. May we beat the odds and be more than a statistic! 

Live the life you love. 

Love the life you live. 

Don’t Fear the Reaper (I need more cowbell)

Fear is one of the strongest emotions you can feel. If utilized properly it can save your life. The fight or flight instinct comes from fear. You are more aware, alert, your senses are heightened, hypersensitive to the sights, sounds and smells around you. Your pulse quickens and your pupils dilate. Your body prepares for an advancing attack or to run from imminent danger. We are no so different than animals in the wild. We still have those fear sensors, but most of us aren’t having to hunt for our dinner or escape hungry wolves. But, in more subtle ways, fear serves a practical purpose. Fear of punishment is a deterrent for getting into trouble, fear of injury keeps us from engaging in foolhardy acts that we know or perceive to be dangerous.

It has a purpose. But if not reigned in, it can destroy you. Fear of rejection is why so many people are hesitant to express their emotions to someone they love. Fear of failure is the cause for many unfulfilled dreams. Fear of not fitting in, can keep you from shining brightly. Fear of dying can prevent you from fully living.

I’ve been living in fear for awhile now. Even more so within the last couple of months than perhaps in the last couple of years, if you can believe that. My anxiety level has been ranging from “okay, just breathe” to “holy fucking shit I’m going to have a full blown come apart!!!” to “just hand me the entire bottle”.

More and more, people tell me how good I look or how healthy I seem to be or that I’m finally getting back to my old self. It never fails that when someone tells me this, I feel my insides tense up. Outwardly I smile and say thank you; meanwhile my brain is screaming, “Shut up! The “cancer gods” will hear you!” This might sound ridiculous, and it probably does, but it’s true. It’s like knocking on wood. Or jinxing the situation. Superstition... If I feel too good or look too good, it will be taken from me.

Last week, or maybe the week before, I was at a friend’s house. We were grilling and drinking cold beverages. At one point, he asked me, “At what point do you finally accept it? Your situation?” He was referring to the five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. This comes from the Kubler-Ross model of the emotional stages a person goes through concerning death and dying. And that ultimately, a person faced with the death of a loved one, or their own death, will experience all five of these emotions, though not necessarily in the order described above. My personal experience has been that you can live and relive all five emotions in non-linear form, with varying longevity; sometimes in a single day. So, when he asked me this, I told him honestly that I wasn’t sure I had reached acceptance. Maybe I never would. Some days are just better than others.

But then last night I found it; a new kind of peace. As I sat outside, trying to tune out the noise in my head, and “just breathe”, a thought occurred to me. I thought how ironic if I actually lived to be 93 (as a “psychic” in New Orleans once told me I would). And then I thought, and how shitty would it be to live to be 93, and look back on my life and realize I wasted even a single minute worrying about dying. No doctor is going to make me any such promises. No doctor can. But no doctor can make any of you any promises either. I woke up this morning and turned on the news. 30 or more people killed in a terrorist attack in Brussels. I guaran-damn-tee you none of those people while brushing their teeth this morning, thought, “Hmmm, I wonder if I will get killed on my commute to work today by a bomb?”

I talked to someone yesterday who has a family member that is a ten year cancer survivor. He said they told him once, no matter how long you go with no detectable disease, it’s always in the back of your mind. Will it come back? Will it be worse? Will it kill me? Will it be horrible? Will the people I love have to watch me suffer? Will they suffer because of it?

I know the struggle. I face it daily. I don't always overcome the fear, but I can work every day to lessen it, so that it doesn’t control me. That’s close enough to acceptance in my book. And after all, this is my damn book.

A month of Mondays

It’s been exactly one month since my last blog post. Stop yelling at me. I’ve been preoccupied. Just kidding. I doubt anyone lost any sleep over it. So what have I been up to? Well, let’s see. First of all, I DID drink that bottle of champagne with a few of my best friends. One year ago (yesterday) I was released from my stint in prison (also known as the hospital) where I was recovering from surgery. After twenty long days I was finally sent home, completely exhausted and anorexic. Now here I sit, a year later, over twenty pounds heavier and feeling just fine. Ah, the difference a year can make.

I’ve been working on a couple of career ideas I have, and still trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up. More importantly, I’ve been taking some time out for me to reflect, relax and rethink a few things. This was on the advice of my psychologist, who suggested I ease up on the self-imposed to do lists I create for myself and just enjoy this time off. After our session, I went three days without changing clothes. It was nice. But three days is enough of that.

To be honest, I’ve had a lot on my mind during the last month or so. After my last post, a friend of mine made the following comment:

A fact of life that I've accepted: HOPE is a wicked bitch. It's fine to know her, go shoe shopping with her, even have a drink with her occasionally but it's never a good idea to let her live in your house. I'm not suggesting that you give up hope (definitely don't), just keep her where she belongs. 

This is so true. And it’s something most people just don’t understand. Yes, I feel fine. Yes, I look healthy. And yes, it is possible that all of the cancer that took over my body and tried to kill me has been eradicated; never to return. It is also possible that there is still cancer there and it will still have to be dealt with, most likely with another round of high dose chemotherapy. I won’t know until at least April when they run more tests, if even then. Now what most people will say is to look at it from a positive point of view. Hey, might as well assume it’s gone and get back to living a normal life and move on until I find out differently. It makes sense. I mean why worry about something you have no control over anyway, right? And there is truth and wisdom to that. Worrying is only good for acquiring dark under eye circles and gray hair. Here’s the flip side to that. As my insightful friend pointed out hope is a good thing. Hope is what keeps us going on the bad days that we all have. We know (or hope) that no matter what is going on in our lives that things WILL be better. This too shall pass. BUT, as she also very eloquently pointed out, and something I know from first hand experience, is what it’s like to get your hopes up only to be disappointed by reality. It’s soul crushingly devastating. Which is why in a position like mine, you have to ride this fine line between not worrying and assuming the worst, and yet mentally preparing for what may in fact be coming down the road and however bad it may be. It’s mental survival. But it’s not easy. I go about my days, doing my best to enjoy the moments and create happiness where I can. I make vacation plans and plug away at different career interests so I can get back to work (and get paid) at some point. But there are times, when amidst the planning when I have to consider the possibility that if I have to do more chemo, then all my plans may go flying right out the window.

And survivor’s guilt. Oh, it’s real. Anyone with cancer wants to be cured. And no, I shouldn’t feel bad for feeling good. But if I do make it, then what about the ones who don’t? How is that fair? I’m certainly not special. But that’s life, and it’s not fair. It doesn’t have any rhyme or reason sometime. Bad things happen to good people, blah, blah, blah. You know. Still, it’s this kind of shit that will keep a person up at night. So, back to just enjoying the moment while it’s here. It’s honestly all you can really do. 

But let me tell you some good news. I have finally figured out how to tune my guitar. Turns out, there’s an app for that! Imagine that.... I am working on learning a few chords and maybe this time next year I will be able to play an actual song. I have made a teensy bit of progress on my book. Only teensy; however, now I’m caught up on a few other things I’ve had going, so should have more time now to devote to writing. I’m taking online real estate classes. I’ve been interested in the field since the company I worked for went belly up. I like the idea of not being tied to a desk and the flexible schedule it would allow. I’m also researching other career ideas and the idea of possibly going back to school if need be, perhaps something in the field of oncology. It seems appropriate. And I plan to start submitting writing samples to various publications in hopes of  finding a niche in the world of writing. 

I’ve been doing yoga more often these days. Always take time to stretch. Trust me. You will feel so much better for it. I’ve been looking into alternative cancer cures. I now incorporate turmeric and selenium and other antioxidants into my diet when I can, and have just recently purchased some CBD oil. I haven’t tried it yet, but I’m going to give it a shot. Oh, and I have been dating someone. We’ve been friends for forever, but only in the last few months has it moved into another category. I will blame him for some of my preoccupation and therefore lack of blog posts. But it’s been a good preoccupation. Today is his birthday. So, if you’re reading this, happy birthday!!! And if you’re not, you should be. 

I keep busy. For someone who doesn’t have a “real” job, I don't have a lot of free time. But for me, that’s a good thing. I only have one tattoo - the Libra scales. Life is about balance. And I can tell when my scales get tipped too far in any one direction; I start feeling out of sorts, and I have to shift it back the other way. That’s all I’m really doing at the moment. A delicate balancing act between work and play, family and friends, knowledge and wisdom, hope and reality. And I will continue writing. Even if I don’t get a post up every week, I will stay in touch. I know that whether I do or don't is not life altering for anyone. And there are days when I don’t, for whatever reason, most especially when I don’t feel I have anything worth sharing, like today, really. However, since I have started this blog, there have been a handful of people who have reached out to me and thanked me for writing these stories. Somehow it resonates with them, for some, it’s with their own battle with cancer or illness or any other of life’s struggles. And that gives me reason. 

So, until next time, remember: “You only live once, but if you do it right, once is enough.” 

Salut!

I bought a bottle of champagne several months ago while I was visiting friends in Birmingham, AL. It’s a nice rose champagne. I bought it with one intention; to open it the day my doctors tell me I am cancer free. It’s still sitting here. Unopened.

I met with my oncologist a couple of days ago. The two liver ablation procedures I had done were successful. There are no more spots on my liver. Everything looks good there. It’s the spots on my lungs that are cause for concern. The problem is, based on the latest PET/CT scan I had done, it would appear I have developed new spots. But maybe not. It may be that the previous CT scan didn’t catch them all. The other problem is they are too small to biopsy. To put it in laymen terms, they are baffled about what to do about it or what exactly they are. They are not growing or shrinking as would be expected for typical metastatic cancerous lesions. But then again, it seems there’s a high probability that’s exactly what they are. One option is to undergo another round of chemo and see how they react. Another option is to do nothing and wait to see if they present themselves in such a way that we know for sure what they are. The risk is of course that it could spread. My oncologist was very clear, however, that even if they do multiply or enlarge, the chemo treatment would do it’s job and eradicate all of it, whether it’s five spots or fifty. That’s assuming of course, they respond to the chemo. It seems they have not responded to the chemo or tumor starving drugs I was on previously. Based on whatever information she had, she determined there were certain drugs we could rule out. Which according to her is one of those double edged swords - on the one hand, it’s good to know that because it saves us from wasting time on drugs that aren’t going to work. The bad news is that it eliminates half the drugs available to me.

I can honestly say the last thing on earth I want to do is endure more chemo. In fact, I’m not entirely sure I can. I was pretty sure the last bout would kill me. And I am only now getting to the point where I feel good on a regular basis, physically speaking anyway, and not looking like I have one foot in the grave. The idea of being that sick again, and losing all the progress I have made, makes me want to sit in a corner and cry my eyes out. For days. I have chosen the let’s wait and see option. My oncologist is presenting my case at the next council meeting among other oncologists and surgeons to get their opinions, in the meantime, I am praying.

God does speak to me at times. Sunday night, knowing I had a week full of doctor appointments, I prayed and asked God for clarity and healing and as always, for help. And he answered. In the form of television, no less, starting with a marathon of Bear Grylls talking about survival in the wild, and a movie called The Martian. Good movie, by the way, if you haven’t seen it, and the entire theme of the movie is survival. Imagine that. And it all started to click. And while that might not sound like a divine message from heaven, you have to understand my mindset.

When I was first diagnosed, I could see an end in the future. I could foresee a day when all of this would be behind me, nothing but a memory. As hard as it was, I knew if I could just grit my teeth and deal with the pain, I could get through it. That thought kept me going on the really hard days, through radiation, and surgery, and chemo - through all of it. I thought one day, this would all be over. The kick in the stomach is that I’m not sure that’s the case anymore. Actually, I’m not sure that was necessarily ever the case; I just refused to believe it. My oncologist, God love her, has been dropping subtle hints for awhile now, using terms like “incurable” and phrases such as “this doesn’t change the prognosis” and “maintenance drugs”. But as we’ve already established, the mind is willfully stubborn at times. And so am I.

It’s as if I am just now grasping a new truth. That bottle may forever remain unopened. I’m not saying the cancer will eventually kill me. Granted, it’s true that it might. But I am gradually coming to a new realization, that there may very well be no “end". This is my new life. And as long as I’m living, I will have to fight for it. Which brings me to my new modus operandi: surviving. I have been in survival mode for so long now, I’m not sure I remember how to not be. And just when I start to think I may have this disease whipped, I get another dose of not-so-fast-my-dear. I met with a psychologist for the first time this past week as well. Of the hour long session, I would say I cried for about fifty minutes of it. It felt good. I’m seeing her again next week. And probably the week after if I have my way. In many ways I feel like I’m in limbo land. And in many ways I am. But I’m trying to survive another day, and hopefully for many more days after that. That’s the message I think God was sending me. It's not about beating cancer, but surviving it, every single day, for the rest of my life.  

So I have a new plan. I will be opening that bottle of champagne on January 26, 2016 on the one year anniversary of my surgery. It seems like as good a time as any. I may not have yet won the war, but I will celebrate all of the battles I can claim victory over. And there are many.

Sincerely,
Jennifer Dees Whitten
Cancer Survivor

The Gift

What you say can and will be used against you. Make no mistake about that. A couple of perfect examples that come to mind involve this very blog. A couple posts ago I mentioned that I was having some concerns about someone being an irresponsible parent. Someone I know assumed the post was about them. Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn’t. It doesn’t matter. Example two is last edition, I talked about some of my OCDness. A friend of mine has now used the word neurotic at least three or four times since then when talking about me; something they didn’t do previous to my post. But you know what, that’s okay too. As a writer, I know that there are consequences to anything I publish. Whether it’s hurt feelings, or pissing someone off, or exposing myself for the world to see; it can make you vulnerable. That’s the risk. It’s also the main reason I have yet to write the book I’ve always wanted to. But it’s coming. As a matter of fact, I have already started it. And my new year’s resolution is to finish it in 2016. And if anything I have said in my blog has perhaps offended your senses, or you think “wow, that girl has issues” then you really should read the book. I haven’t even scratched the surface yet. The truth shall set you free. It also may alienate certain folks who would rather you didn’t speak it so freely. But that is what a good writer does. Or at least the authors I’m interested in reading, and therefore is my goal to do the same. Consequences be damned.

Each moment we have is so brief. Every second of our lives spent, is another second of our past. Gone, forever. These collections of moments are what we call memories. And while you’ve heard a million times in a million ways, you still don’t understand. We forget that every single moment counts. Not because you may get hit by a bus on the way home and never get to tell your wife you're sorry for the argument you had before work, but because that minute you spent arguing is now a recorded moment of your past, a time past that you will never ever have again. And those precious minutes now influence your recollection of the past and the feelings associated with it, whether it’s guilt or pain or joy.

I was really looking forward to the TV movie “Coat of Many Colors”. I missed it the first time, and had plans to watch it Christmas night on the rebroadcast. However, a couple of friends I know wanted to get together and drink and be merry. I knew I couldn’t do both. As much as I wanted to watch my show, I couldn’t pass up the chance to spend time with my friends. The show was the story of Dolly Parton’s life or at least a portion of it, but this time now, this is my life. And I want to make my moments count. I would rather fill it with memories of laughter shared among those I love, than countless hours spent watching someone’s else life on screen.

So remember that the next time your best friend calls and you don’t pick up the phone because you’re in the middle of cooking dinner. Remember it when your husband comes home from work, stressed about a hectic day, and you are tempted to tune him out. Or when you’re driving home from the grocery store, on the same road you drive everyday, no longer mindful of the trees. Or when you just can’t bear to swallow your pride and say you are sorry. I think if I could leave you one thing, one thought, this would be it. But you probably won’t listen anyway. I mentioned in one of my earlier blog posts about reading an article regarding Melissa Etheridge and Sheryl Crow and their respective battles with cancer and how they referred to cancer as a “gift”. I know now what that gift is. The price for that knowledge and the wisdom gained is rather steep, and comes at an incredibly painful price, but I think in the end it’s worth it. It’s value is immeasurable.

A day late and a dollar short

I worry a lot. I will overthink every situation that comes my way. As an example, if I think I have said something that may have offended one of my good friends, I will stress about it for hours, days, even weeks maybe. Then, the next time I talk to my friend, I will bring it up, only to find out they have no idea what I’m talking about. Part of my “life after cancer” is to learn how not to worry quite so much, since I’m convinced that over worrying may have led to this whole situation to begin with. My dad doesn’t worry about many things at all. My mother usually worries double for him. I obviously inherited it from her side of the family.

I’ve decided it must be a control thing. I worry about the things I cannot control. I can be somewhat of a perfectionist, and no, it’s not a good thing all the time. It serves its purpose when it comes to certain tasks. But it carries over into other aspects of my life where it has no real purpose, and becomes more of a hindrance than an attribute. My friends are aware of my neuroticisms. They love me anyway. It’s not that I’m bossy, it’s more like, I know what needs to be done, and how, and I know it will be done right. In fact, I’m reciting the serenity prayer right now, in an effort to let it all go. Because, guess what... I’m again worrying about something that is beyond my control and I know it. At least I can now recognize the signs. They say acknowledgement is the first step to recovery.
I’m working on it. Sometimes it sneaks up on me though, and I find myself fretting over something I can’t really do much about, like earlier today. Part of my conscious effort is to try to imagine the worse case scenario and how it might play out. It seems to be helping. So far, no worlds have exploded regardless of the outcome. But old habits die hard.

I cry more these days than I recall ever having done in my past adult life. I laugh a lot harder when I laugh though too, I think. I embrace them both. Hell, just yesterday, I started crying in my doctor’s office while talking about my pain. Not like snotty nose, boo-hooing, but more like as-I’m-talking-tears-start-coming-and-I-can’t-seem-to-stop-them kind of way, with no apparent reason. And just a minute ago I busted out laughing rather loudly while sitting in the hospital waiting room and didn’t care. I’m just more emotional these days, and it doesn’t take much to set me off one way or the other. I can cry and laugh within the same thirty minute time frame, and often do. And just because I’m crying (or laughing) doesn’t mean I’m sad (or happy). But more like, I seem to feel every emotion I go through in a day’s time more deeply, and I don’t consider that a negative. I guess it’s all a part of Jennifer’s home therapy. Because a portion of that therapy is embracing who I am. The core of me. The good, the bad and the slightly neurotic. And being more aware of each moment as it’s happening. It’s never too late to change the parts of you that need improving. It’s also never too late to accept who you are fundamentally and embrace those quirks that make you so damn, well, you. 

Suck It Up, Buttercup

The Lord works in mysterious ways. The universe has a twisted sense of humor. Life has a funny way of working out. Pick whichever one you like. But I’m telling ya, it’s true.

Yesterday was a fairly shitty day. I woke up with a slight hangover from too much celebrating the night before. It was my friend’s birthday, and my motto has always been, go big or go home. Hangover aside, I was just downright depressed and have no real reason why. I take medication for this so you would think that wouldn’t be a problem. Maybe it was that shot of Fireball. Whatever the reason, I woke up feeling sad and blue, and more than a little aggravated. The object of my aggravation was a friend of mine and his um, how shall I say, baby momma drama? And of course, not one to just let things go, I had to have a discussion about it. And guess what, this discussion did absolutely nothing to make me feel better. Instead I felt even worse.

I go the grocery store, still agitated from my conversation. As I’m walking down the aisle, I feel tears threatening to spill. And who the hell wants to start crying while picking out cereal? That’s just awkward. So I suck it up like a big girl (a big, sad, almost crying in the store, girl), get my purchases and drive home. As I’m driving it occurs to me that my frustration goes beyond whether or not the mother of my friend’s child is fit to take care of a small person. And what I’m about to say is probably going to sound horrible, but here it is anyway. I was upset that she was allowed by nature to have a child, and is perhaps one of the most irresponsible people I know, and yet God saw it fitting to make sure I will never have a child of my own. There I said it. I was angry at life’s unfairness. Now I realize that I was once married and had reproductive capabilities for many years. However, in my defense, I was in my mid-twenties when I got married and raising future adults was not high on my agenda. I was pursuing more career oriented goals. By the time the notion of having kids even registered on my radar, my marriage was already on a downward spiral. Having seen firsthand what having children can do to an already unstable marriage, I opted out. I still think it was the right decision. However, this didn’t make it any more comforting when the doctors told me I needed to have a hysterectomy in addition to my colon resection. The radiation had fried my ovaries, there was a better than average chance the cancer had already spread to my female organs, and if it hadn’t yet, it surely would and I would only be prolonging the inevitable and another risky surgery down the road, combined with the fact that it was a threat to my very life by not having them removed, I mean, what damn choice was there... Exactly. There wasn’t one. And having your choice to reproduce taken from you will wreak all kinds of emotional havoc.

And it wasn’t just for my sake I was upset. I thought about my parents and how they would forever be denied a grandchild to love and spoil. So that was my emotional crisis yesterday. But, as fate would have it, a three year old child spent the night with me last night. And she got sick - as in vomiting on my bed and on herself sick. And not just once, but multiple times throughout the night. Which, of course, meant I got no sleep either. If she was up, I was up. And maybe this was my reminder that having children is not always sunshine and rainbows. And maybe for reasons unknown to me right now, there is a perfectly good explanation, to be revealed much later, as to why I am childless. I like to think so.

Oh, and remember last week when I volunteered at the Help Center and questioned whether or not I was doing anything worthwhile? Well, that question was answered today too. One of the volunteers had to leave early and we got crazy busy shortly after they left. At one point, I was running around so feverishly I was starting to sweat. And a small thought came to me. Had I not been there, there would only have been one person back there working in that area, and that poor person would be completely swamped. And whether or not I made a direct impact on any one person’s life, somebody had to be there to bag up clothes, so it might as well be me. So there. A lot can change in one week, most especially your perspective. So remember that the next time you’re having your own emotional crisis. Nothing lasts forever. (Even Cold November Rain) Until then, suck it up, and keep on doing your thing.

Not Forgotten

I had a great holiday week, but I have to be honest and admit that I’m glad it’s over, only because I am exhausted from the going and doing that accompanies it. I got to see a few friends that I rarely get to spend time with, including my high school best friend that I haven’t seen in about seventeen years, and that was beyond wonderful. However, catching up with friends, spending time with family, and good times abounding can wear you out. To start the new week, I went to Florence, AL today and donated my time working at the Help Center. It’s part of my pay it forward mentality I’ve adopted these days. Plus, I feel like for every charitable deed I do, maybe I can atone for past sins.

Typically, after a bout of good-deed-doing, I get a warm, fuzzy feeling all over. Today, I did not. Maybe it was the cold, rainy weather, or perhaps fatigue from the recent week’s activities, but as I drove home after my volunteer shift, I couldn’t help but feel rather melancholy. Perhaps it was knowing that I really didn’t do anything special and that for most of the people that came in today, their problems are much larger than anything I can fix. They leave with groceries and possibly a couple bags of clothes, but not much else. There were stories of those who can’t find work, or a house that recently burnt, or bad health that leaves them unable to keep a steady job. A brown paper bag full of canned food isn’t going to fix that.

Or maybe my depressing mood was because today only served as a reminder that life isn’t easy, and the solutions to everyday problems are often more complicated than anything that can be fixed in one day. Or sometimes even, in one year. This past Thanksgiving, as I was be-bopping up my cousin’s walkway, arms full with a casserole, tea and a few bottles of wine, it occurred to me that the Thanksgiving prior to this one, was a much different story. I wasn’t carrying wine or a casserole. As a matter of fact, I had to have help just getting out of the car. I can remember pulling into the driveway, popping a pain pill, and waiting for the wave to pass before attempting to get of the passenger seat. And throughout dinner, I barely moved. At times it’s easy to forget that. It’s easy to forget how bad things were, during a period in life when things seem better. But I do not want to forget. Ever.

As I stood at the counter of a gas station this afternoon, waiting on my friend to finish pumping gas so we could pay for it, an older gentlemen turned to me and said (as I stood staring out the window) that I had a faraway look fitting for a rainy day. I smiled at him, and he smiled back. Then, as he was walking out the door, he turned around and smiled at me again. There was something about that smile. It was one of those knowing smiles. A smile that says, “I understand.” “I’ve been there before.” The truth is, we all have been there at one time or another. The trick is to not forget it. When we lose ourselves in the commonality of everyday living, it becomes easy to take these moments for granted. It’s only when we make a conscious effort to remember the pain from our past, that we can embrace our present and make purposeful our future.

Turkey Day Tribute

Okay, so I guess I should apologize for not posting anything in two weeks. In my defense, since the last we met, I’ve been to Colorado and back, had another spot on my liver burnt off, and walked up and down Beale Street listening to some blues. I mean, who has time for writing amongst all that?

Quick thing on Colorado: I freaking loved it!!!! And for one main reason, and that reason, is marijuana is completely legal there. Now, granted you have to be 21 to purchase it, and you can’t just light it up in the middle of a restaurant, but they do have smoke bars and pot friendly areas. And of course, in your own home, you can do whatever you want with it. The hotel we stayed in had a smoking area, which was awesome. I met two different couples there, a young couple from Florida and an older couple from Pennsylvania, who were there for the same reasons; to smoke weed without worrying about cops busting down your door. To be honest, I’ve never understood why it’s not legal everywhere.

But that’s another post for another day. Maybe next week. This week I want to focus on the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday. It’s a day dedicated to giving thanks for our blessings. Granted, we should do this every single day, but most of us don’t. We forget. We wake up in a hurry to get dressed for work, spend hours responding to texts, calls and emails, get our jobs done, then rush back home for dinner, laundry, and late night television. Then we get up and do it all over again. Except Saturdays. And on Saturdays, in the fall, in the South, we drink beer and watch football. But at Thanksgiving, we gather around the table with our families, and take a minute to appreciate one another before digging into the turkey and dressing, and then promptly fall into a food coma. I have to be honest, one of my favorite things about Thanksgiving are the leftovers. Casseroles just seem to taste better the second time.

I try to remember these days to include a moment of thanks in my daily routine. Not that I have a daily routine anymore. I just commented to a friend today that every day is Saturday for me, but without the beer and football. That’s what happens when you haven’t had a real job in over a year. But I do try to stop and say a prayer at the end of each day thanking God for the blessings in my life, even though I too, sometimes forget. But I have so much to be thankful for. Being alive is quite obviously at the top of that list. My parents being a close second. And my girlfriends, well, I can’t imagine my life without them. But I’m honestly thankful for all the wonderful people in my life. I’m thankful for you all, who are reading this post right now, for supporting me on this journey. I am thankful for every single person who has helped me in any way throughout the last year and a half. Sometimes I catch myself feeling a bit guilty at all of the kindness that has been bestowed upon me. Who am I to deserve it? I have tried in earnest to pay it forward as much as I can by doing things for others in need. And I have no doubt if I lived 100 more years, I would never be able to repay that debt of gratitude. But I can always try. And I will.

And I am thankful for every trial I have gone through and every lesson learned along the way. I am thankful for a second chance at life, God willing. Let’s all try a little harder to acknowledge life’s blessings each and every day, and not just on holidays or Sunday mornings. Tell the people you love, today, that you love them. And thank God for every day you wake up, because one day, you won’t.

So happy Thanksgiving to each and every one of you. May your holidays be filled with love, laughter and leftovers.

For Better or Worse

This time two years ago I was pretty sure life couldn’t get much better. This time one year ago, I was pretty sure it couldn’t get much worse. Nowadays, I hope for better and pray for no worse. The last year and a half has shown me that life can very suddenly take a turn in any direction, and that things can get a helluva lot worse than you ever imagined. And if given the chance, I would not hesitate to change my present circumstance. And if it were in my power, the word cancer would not exist. But it does. And I can’t change that. But not everything in the past year has been without merit.

I can very clearly recall a time period this past fall, when I was so sick I was certain I was knocking on death’s door. And it retrospect, I may have been knocking louder than I thought. It was during this particular time frame, that on one day my ex-husband came to pay me a visit and check on me. I was going through radiation at the time, and battling c-diff. I was completely dehydrated and in utter agony. No, I’m not being dramatic. It literally took all my strength and energy just to get out of bed and go to the bathroom. In fact, I was in bed the day he came to visit. I could barely move. He walks into my bedroom and immediately his face took on the look of someone who has just seen a ghost. He quickly tried to compose himself and recover, but in that one instant, his expression betrayed him. I lived with the man for 12 years. I can read him like a book. In that moment I knew just how terribly close to death I looked. He told me much later that he went home and cried that day. He was certain I was dying.

But I didn’t die. In some of those darkest moments, when every piece of me hurt, and I was so sick that some days it felt easy to just give up, I would pray. I would lay in bed and cry, not just for myself, but for those around me who were affected by my condition, like my parents. Their love for me was one of the things that got me through. I would ask God to spare me for their sake. I knew that if I died, my friends and family would be upset, and certainly mourn my death. But I also knew that they would manage without me. Eventually the pain would ease, and while they might miss me on occasion for the rest of their lives; their lives would continue on. But not my parents. My parents would be devastated. I am their only child. If I died, it would absolutely break their hearts. And I just couldn’t do that to them. So I prayed. I begged and pleaded with God to not take me just yet, for them, if for no other reason at all. And for now, I am still here.

So what good has come from this journey? Well, I have tried in earnest to remove the phrase “I’m too busy” from my vocabulary, because I understand that 99.9% of the time, it’s only a lie we tell ourselves and others. You will always find time in life for what or who is important and meaningful to you. So, instead I prioritize what is important to me, and at the end of the day, I feel as though I have made the most of it. I try to to be more patient and forgiving of others, even though there are times when I still fail. I have come to value my relationships more so than ever before. Our connection with others is perhaps what matters most in our lives. This will be your legacy. The people in your life will be the ones who recall you in death. And my relationship with my parents is one that has indeed become stronger, among a few others. I have challenged myself in new ways since my diagnosis. I was forced to take an introspective look at my life, and decide what changes needed to be made and where I want to go from this point forward. Because of this, I am now looking into an entirely new career path, which is both scary and exciting. I have a new peace with life and death that I didn’t have before, and a newfound confidence and deeper sense of self.

I still pray for healing, not just for my body, but for my mind, heart and soul. There are still hard days. Today is one of them. Last week was pretty tough too. I underwent ablation on my liver to remove one of two lesions. Next week doesn’t look much better, as they will be doing the same thing on the second spot. But I know I can get through it. And I know that with all of the bad days, there will still be good days too.